The Monster I Married
by MyHeartInMyWords
Summary: "I love you." Moments like these, when I want more, I almost regret speaking. But I need to know. Mid-breath I gasp, "Even when we hate each other?"


**The Monster I Married**

"Always."

I remember it so clearly, him saying it the first time. Sometimes I lie awake in bed until he would whisper the word into my ear when I ask him questions.

_Do you love me?_

_Do you want me?_

_What about when I grow old and the wrinkles appear?_

_And fat? And impatient? And white-haired and saggy?_

…_Even when you know I don't want children?_

I remember myself being so daring that one night. Still, the answer never changes. "_Always_," he reassures onto the nape of my neck tonight, and it never fails to make me shiver. The room is so quiet and dark, with only the flicker of the candles from the breeze coming through the open window. I listen to his breaths go from calm and even to heavy with need.

I let his hands roam to where territory's become familiar and my soft moans are expected. As he combs my braid loose with his fingers, I revel in the lustful looks he gives me, yielding to the way he massages my scalp. It's hypnotizing, and even more so when he finally kisses me, at last feeding my own need.

It's been so long since I felt a fire in me ignite, and it quickly spreads through every fiber of my body, so I press myself to him—no candlelight glows through our shadows' silhouettes on the wall—knowing very well he's the only one who can extinguish it.

Moments like these, when I want more, I almost regret speaking. But I need to know.

Mid-breath I gasp, "Even when we hate each other?"

He jerks his head back, jaw clenched and teeth grit together. I search his casted-off glare for any answer, and I can already feel him pulling away, growing cold. When I murmur his name, a meek effort to call him back to me, he turns away in a sharp movement and he shuts his eyes impossibly tight.

But he doesn't budge a step. He's still holding me, granted it's more like squeezing now while he fights to compose himself.

"Look at me," I say, and he holds his breath as he turns to face me again. Every intimate night we go through this process. "Peeta, look at me."

And it never ends well.

His eyes snap open and they're haunted and hard with anger. They analyze my face, my slightly terrified eyes, my wrinkling nose, my swollen lips, my frazzled hair, and I suddenly become aware of how this might trigger something I'm prepared to fight.

"_You_," he snarls, and takes a fistful of my hair to yank back. I swallow the cry that erupts from my throat and wince, clutching him closely still. But he shoves me into the wall and I take it. I take it when he yells a string of profanity at me, tries to throw a punch at me, tries to choke me. But tonight, he hurls me onto our bed and pins me down. I have no where to look but at his bewildered eyes when he lowers his head. "You _mutt_," he says sinisterly as he roughly pushes the hair from my face. "You come in here, ruin my beautiful Katniss. How many times do I have to kill you to get rid of you?"

"Peeta," I whimper. The tears spring to my eyes, but I refuse to scream because he doesn't scare me. Even when he's like this, all deranged and confused and riled up with fury, I don't give into portraying the shiny, evil Katniss that disturbs him so. I have to stay strong for him. Be real for him. And there's only one way I know how.

In one swift movement, I crane my neck forward and plant my lips onto his tight mouth. He pulls back just enough for me to wriggle out of his grasp and secure him to me. The sight of his wild, startled eyes makes me close my own. It turns into a wrestling match, and we both know that I'm no competition when he uses all of his strength.

But I manage to rip off the buttons of his shirt and in the blur of the moment he's hiked up my nightgown, so in the fleet of the moment I hitch my leg around him and give a slow roll of my hips. He growls something at me, but it gets lost in a throaty moan. Nonetheless, he attempts to separate me from him by roughly pushing me into the mattress, an unconscious effort of the real Peeta, I'm sure, to protect me from the havoc he's about to unleash. I kiss him again anyway.

This time, he lingers and bites at bottom lip, his hijacked side ever present. Once his grip thaws, I splay my hands onto his heaving chest, and run them up and down the plane of his tense muscles. I can feel him grow hard against me so I swivel my hips once more, and I'm rewarded with a breathy "Katniss." It almost sounds like him. Almost.

He assesses the situation again, peering at me through hair matted at his forehead. In spite of the fact that there's still a glint of madness evident in his dilated pupils, I blush when he studies me from head to toe. We swallow at the same time as he makes a measured reach for a strap of my night gown. The muscles in my neck seize, but he fights the urge to strangle me right then and there. Instead, he grazes my collarbone with the tips of his shaky fingers. I'm just about convinced that he's come back to me until he suddenly rips my strap from its seams.

I shudder in anticipation, and the heat engulfs me from the pit of my stomach to the length of my thighs. My lower half develops a mind of its own and writhes underneath his weight in search for some relief. But he contorts his face, disgusted with himself.

In his current twisted state of mind, I'm his nightmare. Torturing him, enraging him for making him see ghosts and hear screams. But undoubtedly arousing him at the same time.

I lift a hand to caress his face, to erase the hard lines, but he snatches my wrist in mid-air and I cringe. He sucks in a breath to lowly hiss, "Don't touch me." Then he takes my hips, digs his thumbs into the bones, and thrusts me into the mattress, leaning in next to my ear. His breath is hot and moist when he says in the darkest tone I've heard him speak in, "I'll show you what it's like. What it's like to be…tortured."

"Peeta," I gasp, my courage tested. Flashes of tracker jackers and their venom coursing through my veins strike me frozen. What they did to him when they held him hostage. Merciless beating, red blood pouring. He wouldn't do that. He won't. But then I remember how bent he was on trying to kill me when we rescued him. Trying to kill the mutt that invaded his mind. I shake from the inside out. "Peet—"

"_Don't_," he snaps at me, "say my name." Because it pains him, I realize, hearing my voice come out of the demon he sees. He clamps his eyes shut and fists the sheets rather than my hair. "Don't you dare say it like that. You're not her."

"But I am," I say quietly, and I'm not quite sure he hears me. "Peeta, it's me, it's—"

"_Shut—up!_" His hand claps over my mouth while the other one roughly tugs at my nightgown, his wild eyes glaring into mine. "They stripped me," he says as he works the fabric above my hips and tears the other strap, bunching it at my stomach. "Nights on end. Left me naked in that cold, dark room." He blows out the candle.

My blood curdles. I'm the naked one now. Shivering in this dark bedroom.

His mouth hangs open, raggedly breathing, and allows himself a look. I can feel his eyes scan over me, over every curve, using only the sheer moonlight seeping through the curtains to help him see. It feels so invasive but I restrain myself from covering up. When my skin breaks out into to goosebumps, a smug grin takes over his demented facial features.

"They kept telling me all these things that I wished were lies," he continues. "They told me you never wanted me to touch you. That you forced everything you had in you that night in the cave." He sits back onto his knees to get a better look at his captive while the palms of his hands venture aimlessly along my legs. I'm afraid if I make any sudden movements…

But I flinch. When he suddenly gropes my thigh, my body jolts. And it jolts towards him.

I still want this. Regardless of the fear that renders me paralyzed, I still feel the hunger. With him being this way, it only spurs me on. It's like sleeping with another person, and the person I see before me is most definitely not my perfect Peeta. There were nights before this, rare occasions, where he'd take me so rough for reasons I can't explain. This Peeta doesn't make love; he doesn't dare, not with me appearing as some mutt. It's raw and blistering hot on even the coldest nights when he does this to me. When he makes me feel the strangest pleasure in pain.

Maybe I flush at the thought of it, so I twist my head around to bury my cheeks into my disheveled hair. Half a beat later, a hand's at my jaw and twists me face forward. His teeth grit together when he says, "I saw you every night. Even when I closed my eyes, you were there, killing people I loved, burning down our home. I saw you everywhere; you taunted me. Taunted me to the brink of _insanity_."

"Peeta, you're not insane—" I try to whisper through his fingers.

"_What_," he roars at me, "did I say, you _mutt_?" He uses all his weight to clamp my mouth shut, and in doing so, his chest abrades against my exposed breasts. I let out a whimper. "So it's only fair if I see you everywhere," he says menacingly, "you'll see me everywhere. I'll drive _you_ mad, I'll…make _you_ suffer."

Without breaking eye contact, one of his hands shoots down to cup me where the fire remains lit with vigor, and gropes me. The ache I have for him and the ache I feel from him slur together. Through lulled eyes, I see him with a sinister smirk. And when he drags a finger across my wet folds I moan, trying to arch into the pressure. But it cues him to take away his hand, and squeezes at my exposed chest.

I bite my lip and he enjoys it, relishes it. He drinks in my anguish like it satisfies him for an unknown purpose. He likes seeing the person who tormented him for so many years under his power.

"Please," I beg, breaking my back to feel his touch.

He remains silent. His hand splays against my hot yet shivering skin and paves a pathway back down to the apex of my thighs. Shame is what I feel when I realize his fingers deftly slip through my folds because of how wet I am. When I lift my hips, he uses his free hand to cement me in the sheets as the other brusquely rubs at my pearl.

It's suffocating; I try to breathe but I can't seem to catch my breath. He presses and then reels back, he strokes and then pulls away, gauging my excruciated reaction every step of the way. Careful to not give me too much pleasure, in turn causing so much pain.

And then he fills me with his fingers and embarrassingly I mewl at the moment of reprieve. In and out, in and out, and he makes a point to make it slow, only every so often grinding his palm against my pearl. My hands find sanctuary at my scalp, and I almost want to rip out of my hair instead of voicing my groans. I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't feed his nightmare, but it feels so good…

"Peeta," I say, having every intention of defying him of not saying his name.

I don't think it's possible but his blue eyes eclipse with black, and he snatches his hand back, leaving me empty. He pins me down when I reach for him, and in a swift movement I utilize the moment to grind against him through the thin fabric of his pants. He grunts, and, without hesitation, he slams me down with his own hip bones. We moan deeply together.

He won't ever sleep with shiny Katniss. He swears by it. But I know he wants me as much I'm dying for him by the way he breathes huskily into my ear and how he makes vague shifts between my legs.

However when I make a move for his waistband, he screams at me. "No! I won't let you get to me. I won't let you inside my head. I won't let you—a _monster_—have me."

I sharply exhale. It hurt more than it should since he's delusional. "I—I'm not—" I stammer helplessly. "Peeta, it's me. Look, look, I'm real."

"You are," he says, his voice coarse from the sudden scream. "You are too real." He begins to peel away from me.

"No, no, no, I'm Katniss," I plead, reaching for him once more, but he smacks my hands away. "Please, Peeta, wake up. For me!" In my clumsiness I climb on top of him to keep him from leaving bed, and somehow I'm the one on top. This position threatens him, and just as he's about to wring my neck I gyrate against his hard-on, rendering him speechless, jaw clenched tight. He plants his hands at my waist and clutches me, but not tight enough to prevent me from stirring up the burning sensation.

It all goes hazy for me as I try to resurrect my Peeta. I'm close to my undoing when I stop myself short to finally kiss him as passionately as I can. He resists but I fight him, force him to remember that everything that we are together, everything that we have is real.

As every ounce of air I have in my lungs escape, I can feel his composure melt under me. His touch thaws at my rib cage, and soon he's running his hands all over me—my lower back, my stomach, my breasts, my butt—to prove that I'm real. That I'm his real Katniss.

And when he stops I leave one last tender kiss on his lips before staring into his eyes, which have paled back to the beautiful blues.

"Peeta," I call him, as if he's been gone for months.

"Katniss," he sighs and sits up to wrap me in a warm embrace. He takes in the scent of my hair to calm himself down.

But before he can murmur an apology, I give a swivel of my hips and rub up against him, at the brink of desperation. He sees this in my eyes and flips me over. This Peeta. He's not one to deny me.

I only blink and Peeta's between my legs, free from the constricting fabric. He peppers kisses along my collarbone, a sincere apology in every one, and I crane my head back, accepting them. He trails them down my chest, around my pert nipples, before tending to each one with nibbles and licks. He makes it to my throbbing center and rolls my pearl with his nimble tongue.

I let him lavish me with wet kisses at my core, teasing me and gifting me with pleasure to make up for the misplaced time. But I'm too close. I have been for far too long.

"I need you," I moan breathily, clawing at his messy blond locks. "Right now, Peeta."

He slides up and matches his lips with mine to answer, and his kisses are drenched with fervor. One of his hands snakes beneath me and lines my core to his length. And in one thrust, I feel whole again.

"Katniss." He pulls back and pushes in again, sighing my name a second time.

But it's not enough. The fire in me is in full blaze, my insides are tightly coiled. "Harder," I tell him, and I clench onto his length when he thrusts in. "More, Peeta, harder."

"What?" This catches him off-guard. He's just spent the past few hours being abusive; why be rough with me? He shakes his head no.

His next thrust I match, and I rock against him, causing him to groan despite his restraint. I take his hands and lift them above my head and keep them there. He's locked into position and staring straight into my eyes. He's read my mind before. I don't know how, but he can. And he doesn't fail me now.

Using his knees he spreads me wider before he swings back and plunges into me full hilt. "Yes," I hiss, egging him on. And he drags back only to drive into me once again, grunting.

"How does it feel?" he says, and his sudden husky tone makes me drip.

"Just like that," I groan, taking in every rough thrust, remembering to clench for him when I can.

My moans turn into those embarrassing mewls again, but it feels like it spurs him on, hearing me in pleasure. On a whim he uses his arm to hoist my knee up, changing the angle he's hitting me altogether. His thrusts turn more urgent—short and quick, our bodies slick with sweat. Then he leads one of my imprisoned hands between us, where I can feel where we join together. He groans at my light touch and directs me to focus on myself.

"Peeta," I breathe and his gaze snaps to mine, once again gauging my facial expressions with every thrust. My mouth gapes open and my eyes half-lidded, he knows. His hand replaces mine and smothers me with another kiss, driving into me with pure resolute. All this tension brings him halfway back to his hallucination, and his free hand digs into my skin. I scream as I feel the flames engulf me and I swear I can feel that smug grin press up against my mouth. He collapses on top of me as soon as he empties his demons.

"I love you, Katniss," he whispers apologetically, placing butterfly kisses upon my sticky forehead. "So much."

"I love you, too," I tell him between pants. "I always will."

I hold my perfect Peeta close and shut my eyes, the visions of roughness flickering through my mind. And they accompany me throughout my dreams. I can't dare call them nightmares; they feel too good.

I begin to wonder…

Who, in this bed, is the real monster?


End file.
